I hesitated, for he had addressed me as though I were a soldier under his command. But I answered, 'If you wish,' and went to the field, passing the carts. In the nearest I saw a pile of round helmets and large, thick jackets that gave off a damp smell.
As I approached Leacon, I saw now how much thinner he was, his broad frame all gone to stringiness. I stood by him, watching the archers. A handsome dark-haired lad who looked to be still in his teens stepped forward with his bow. He was short, but stocky and muscular, with the heavy shoulders most of the men had. Like them he carried a warbow two yards long, with decorated horn nocks at each end.
'Come, Llewellyn!' one of the men called. 'Show us those of Welsh blood can do more than screw sheep!'
The boy smiled broadly. 'Fuck you, Carswell!' A number of arrows had been thrust into the grass and he pulled one out.
Leacon leaned forward. 'Llewellyn,' he said quietly, 'step away a little. Try to hit the mark from a sixty- degree angle, like we practised two days ago.'
'Yes, sir.' The boy stepped away a few yards and faced the tree at an angle. Then, in seconds, he had drawn his bow back nearly three feet, shot, and landed the arrow in the centre of the doublet. The soldiers clapped.
'More,' Leacon said. 'Make it six.' At a speed such as I had never seen, the boy loosed five more arrows, all of which hit the doublet. He turned and bowed to the appreciative crowd, a flash of white teeth in his sunburned face.
'That's how we'll feather them in the goddam Frenchies' bowels!' someone shouted, and there were more cheers.
Leacon turned to me. 'What do you think of my Goddams?' He smiled at my puzzled look. 'It's what English archers call themselves.'
'I have never seen such skill. George, Captain Giffard wants us to move off. I am sorry, I should have said at once, but I was so taken with that display.'
Leacon turned back to the men. 'No more, lads! We march!'
There was a grumbling murmur as the men set to unstringing their bows and I accompanied Leacon back to the road.
'Are your men all from the same district?' I asked.
'No. They come from all over north-west Middlesex. They're a varied bunch, sons of yeomen together with those of artisans and poor labourers. The commissioners are often accused of levying the dregs of the villages, but I was told to pick a company of strong, practised archers—principal archers we call them, and I have. Though there has been little time to train them to work together yet, most of the day is taken up with marching.'
'That fellow who shot last was remarkable, but he seemed young for service.'
'Tom Llewellyn is not nineteen, but he was the best archer I saw at the Views of Arms. A blacksmith's apprentice, son of a Welshman.'
'Are they willing recruits?'
'Some. Others less so. We had a few desertions in London, so we are four men short. And our company preacher was taken ill. We had no time to get a replacement.'
I laughed. 'You were unable to find a preacher in London? Now that does astonish me!'
'Not one willing to serve in the army, anyway.'
I nodded at the officer supervising the loading of the carts, which was now almost complete. He was still walking around, shouting and snapping.
'He is a choleric fellow.'
'Yes, Master Snodin, our whiffler. He is a seasoned veteran, he keeps the men well in order.'
'Ah.' I thought of Goodryke.
'He drinks, though, and gets in a fierce temper. I hope he does not have a seizure before we reach Portsmouth. He is the only other officer, apart from the vientinaries.'
'The what?'
'Companies are grouped into five sections of twenty, each with a corporal in charge whom I have nominated.'
'I was surprised not to see more men in uniform.'
He grunted. 'The store of white coats in the King's armouries has run out, and there has been no time to make more. Even the armour we have is a jumbled-up mixture. I'll swear some of it goes back to the wars between York and Lancaster, if not Agincourt.'
'I saw some ill-smelling padded jackets in one of the carts.'
Leacon nodded. 'Jacks. They give protection from arrows. But many have been shut up in church vestries for years and mice have nibbled at some. I am getting the men to mend them when they have time.'
I watched the men complete their loading. 'George,' I said, 'I understand our way goes near the Sussex border.'
'Yes, between Liphook and Petersfield. With luck we will reach there the day after tomorrow.'
'There is a small town on the Sussex side, Rolfswood. I have some business there.'
'I only know our stops along the road.' Leacon smiled. 'I'm a Kentishman, the less we know of Sussex clods the happier we are. You had best ask when we reach those parts.'
We had come up to the others. 'We must be off, Leacon,' Sir Franklin said.
'Nearly ready, sir.'
'Good. We should find our horses. And I want to talk to you about the men's buttons.'
'I thought we had settled that, sir.' A note of irritation had crept into Leacon's voice.
The captain frowned. 'We discussed it, sir, but did not settle it. Do you think I am of no good memory?'
'No, sir. But—'
'Come with me.' Sir Franklin turned and walked back to the inn, Leacon following, his straight-backed stride contrasting with Sir Franklin's slow, stiff-legged gait.
Dyrick shook his head. 'Buttons? What's that about? Silly old fool.'
We turned at the sound of shouting. The carts were loaded, and the recruits were fixing the large pouches containing their possessions to their belts, beside the long knives they all carried. Two soldiers by the carts had started fighting. The rangy fellow who had dropped the tent in a cowpat the previous evening and a big man with untidy fair hair were pummelling at each other with their fists. Other recruits gathered around eagerly.
'Come on, Pygeon. Don't let him get away with that!'
'What did you say to him now, Sulyard?'
The two men pulled apart, breathing hard, and circled each other. 'Come, Pygeon, you scabby freak!' the fair-haired fellow called out. 'Get your balance! Don't catch the wind with those great ears of yours or you'll fly up like a bird!'
There was more laughter. Pygeon was one of those unfortunates with large ears that stuck out from the side of his head. He had a narrow face and receding chin. He looked no more than twenty, while his opponent was some years older, with ugly, bony features, sharp malicious eyes and the taunting expression of the born bully. I was pleased when Pygeon caught him off guard, kicking out at his knee so that he howled and staggered.
The circle of onlookers parted as the red-faced whiffler Snodin pushed through, his face furious. He crossed to Pygeon and slapped him hard across the face. 'What the fuck's going on?' Snodin shouted. 'Pygeon, it's always you whenever there's trouble. You useless shit!'
'Sulyard won't let me be,' Pygeon shouted back. 'All the time insults, insults. I had to take it in our village but not now.'
Some in the crowd murmured agreement, others laughed. This infuriated the whiffler even more. His face grew almost purple. 'Shut up!' he bawled. 'You're King's men now, forget your damned village quarrels!' He looked malevolently over the crowd. 'This morning you can march in jacks and helmets. And Pygeon's section can wear the brigandynes. You can blame him.' There were groans from the men. 'Quiet!' Snodin shouted. 'You need to get used to them, you'll be wearing them when we meet the French! Front ten men, unload them!'
Ten men peeled quickly away from the crowd, ran up and unloaded the tight-fitting steel helmets from a cart, together with the jacks, and other jackets inlaid with metal plates that tinkled like coins: brigandynes, which I had heard could stop an arrow. Sulyard had got to his feet and, though limping slightly, gave Pygeon a victorious grin.
